Forces
by Second Militia
Summary: Geralt of Rivia is expected to find the king slayer with fellow friends, along with recovering his lost memory before the Wild Hunt. A childhood friend from the Wolf School tags along with his adventure, but he cannot seem to shake a feeling that his fellow witcher knows more than they let on. The plot to eliminate kings runs much deeper than he initially believed.
1. Thrown to the Wolves

Turquoise waves collided into the riverbank. The pitter patter of translucent raindrops mixed with perilous waters, which steadily climbed higher and grew in volume. It threatened to engulf this area in a watery grave. An ominous grey painted the sky. Despite the haunting vista, it offered a safe haven. Promising security and tranquility for one brave enough to venture this far out. Cautious footsteps along a sturdy, thick tree branch were made by one seeking refuge. Damp silver locks clung to pale skin. Exotic golden optics, with slit pupils, scanned the forest's surface. A powerful storm was coming, patiently waiting for the perfect time to strike. Unusual, since the Wild Hunt typically occurred during winter.

* * *

A hunched figure stirred in the middle of the cell, awaking from a long slumber. Inadequately patched sheets descended and revealed shoulder length silver tresses. Defined jawline, with a small dimple in the middle of the chin, high cheekbones, and fine thick eyebrows, medium length lashes complimenting thin almond eyes. Even though this individual had chiseled features, it was made clear that this prisoner was female. She tilted her head at an angle and tossed the raggedy sheet off of her athletic frame before crossing over to the bars. Medium sized hands clasped around metal cylinders. She donned leather armor, where portions of the sleeves were replaced with a silky fabric, which was securely fastened at her back with silver straps. Adjacent to the cell was a young guard who, on occasion, took a swig from his flask.

"Caed'mil," she said tenderly, immediately gaining the man's attention. "My apologies," she began, "I did not mean to disturb you."

The guard stood from his wooden stool and moved closer to the cell. From his understanding, the woman rarely communicated but when she did it was often to superior officers, the other witcher, Geralt of Rivia, or the sorceress and king's advisor, Triss Merigold. Though he reviled witchers and viewed them as mutants, as many did, he found the woman's unique appearance and welcoming demeanor to be enthralling.

"I've never heard of a woman being part of the witchers," he blurted.

"None of which I met have been," she admitted. "Though, it is not entirely improbable…but, that is for another time. What will become of me and my comrade?"

The guard scoffed before chugging the rest of his ale down. He returned to his chair and grabbed it, dragging it over to the cell. Finally, he plopped down on the wooden stool and carelessly tossed the flask across the room. Hesitantly, his arm extended and fingertips brushed against steel manacles around her wrists.

"From what I'm told," he began, "we'll be spending quite some time together. Your friend is scheduled to be executed tomorrow and the sorceress was dismissed."

The female witcher's gaze lowered to the guard's hand. His index finger trailed down the shackles and gave it a light tug. Debating whether or not he would give her more information and at what price.

"They have not determined whether or not to execute me then?"

"I guess…though those noblemen will opt for it. You attended the same school as Master Geralt, so they might say," he was interrupted by the female finishing his statement.

"The assassination of King Foltest was premeditated but what could **we** possibly gain from his death."

"Power, I guess? What do you witchers want?"

A chuckle escaped as she withdrew her hand and placed it upon her chest. The inquiry was too broad, though this guard seemed far from average and might be considered foolish for delving this far or more knowledgeable than expected. She thought it was quite amusing that this man questioned the witchers' motives, as a whole, rather than individual gain.

"What's so funny?"

"My good man, what makes you believe that we have hidden factions plotting for more autonomy? I could only speak for myself," she answered.

"Then, what do you want?"

"May I be frank, sir?"

"Go ahead."

The sound of clanking chains echoed when she approached the bars and casually leaned against them. She shifted her weight to one foot, the other placed behind her ankle. Everything seemed much clearer when she inspected the man further. Immediately, she realized his attire was a bit off compared to the other guards who observed her and, unlike his fellowmen, did not gawk at her unique appearance or vocally proposition her.

"My freedom, of course…but it appears that I am to be reviewed by a member of the Special Forces."

"…W—what," he stumbled over the word.

"Your emblem is inaccurately placed—though that is not a massive detail—and you behave as if you're one of Commander Roche's men. If memory serves me right, you shuddered at the thought of working alongside us witchers no more than four days ago."

"Safe to say you were the smart one of the bunch, huh?"

"I could not possibly confirm that for I have not met every witcher."

Another tug was made at the shackles dangling from her restraints as the man pulled her closer. He stood from his seat, breath tickling the woman's soft skin as he inspected her further. They were of equal height and eyes met briefly before the male allowed his gaze to wander further down.

"No need to be modest, Valeska of Lyria, I've heard a little about you," he said huskily. Despite the unnatural slits and golden hue of her eyes, which sent chills down his spine, he lifted his head and met her piercing stare.

"What makes you so sure that I am this _Valeska_?"

"Heh," silence followed afterwards as he reached inside of his pocket. A silver key swayed from side to side as he smiled half-heartedly. Fear settled in the pit of his stomach as he mulled over whether or not to release this woman. After all, her freedom hinged on whether she provided adequate information or if she truly had no prior knowledge of the king's assassination. Only a few minutes of chatting with her and he could tell that the woman was riddled with secrets. A portion of him wanted to keep this woman for entertainment. Maybe it was the liquid courage he recently ingested that fogged his thinking. Finally, his personal excitement won when he unlocked the cell door.

As if instinctively, the woman closed the distance and pounced upon the man. Her slender fingers slithered through his hair and pulled harshly, exposing his neck fully as she gave an unexpected bite which jolted him. Busy hands worked on the straps at the back of the woman's leather top as the guard peeled the leather garment off snow white skin, exposing full breasts. Two large hands groped and teasingly pinched surprisingly bountiful assets and were soon accompanied by a mouth hungrily sucking at her left breast. She effortlessly shredded his shirt, nails digging deeply and causing long scratches along his back and chest. The woman known as Valeska sat up, straddling him, with her left hand slightly raised. Small flickers form as a current of electric energy manifested itself.

"W—what the hell is that," he was silenced when the female witcher rested an index finger against his lips. A groan escaped the man, causing the female to fully cover his mouth when she casually walked her finger across his bare chest. A slight shock caused him to squirm in response and the hardening of his _soldier._ Tonight was perfect, or so he thought when he grabbed Valeska's hind side and pulled her against his anxious member that threatened to burst from his pants. Once again, she repeated the process, but with more voltage.

"Tonight isn't a good time for me," she finally cooed when he slipped into an unconscious state. A sigh escaped her lips as her hands searched for the key to her manacles. When she found it, she released herself from her restraints then slipped off the man. Standing as she fastened her top back on.

_So the infamous Special Forces had flaws after all_, she thought before exiting the room.


	2. Fissures Exist in Memories and Instinct

Vibrant optics lit up. Triumphantly, the witcheress stood over her attacker clutching a wing swept hilt of a steel sword. After taking a step back she froze. Muscles tensed up once realizing her vision was impaired. Pangs formed at the right side of her abdomen. Medium sized hand pressed against the origin of the pain. Fingertips brushed a wooden hilt of a dagger, which pierced through her armor and lodged in her gut. What strength resided in her quickly diminished as she fell to her knees. Everything appeared to move at a much slower pace. Body leaned back as she caught glimpse of the cloud filled skies and was greeted with transparent droplets hitting her visage. Dark brown tendrils caressed her cheeks as she descended.

_I won_, she thought dreamily regardless of her current situation. Finally, she proved that she was capable of overcoming her limitations.

Strong arms slipped underneath the dazed young woman and lifted her from the mud-covered surface. The sound of a heart thumping could be heard when her head rested against the man's chest. Youthful visage flushed from a combination of anger and dread, in which the latter drove him to unthinkingly bolt down a dirt ridden road.

"Eskel," she managed to utter weakly, but was met with silence.

Minutes went by and the witcheress' companion appeared to be winded by the ordeal. His movements slowed and he clumsily maneuvered through the wilds. Suddenly, he lost his footing and tumbled down a miniature hill. Instinctively he shielded his female counterpart from additional harm. Once again the witcheress called out to him mutedly, brown tresses untamed and strewn about. Eskel planted a large hand at the back of her head and gently stroked. Uncertain of whether it was her selfless nature and overconfidence which led to this day. Part of him pondered whether to chastise her for this degree of carelessness, but instantly erased it from his mind. Thin lips planted themselves on the young woman's forehead for he understood why she challenged the man and why she had gone so far as to spike his drink. Oddly enough, he would have done the same if the matters concerned her.

Softly she muttered, "Squass'me…" her voice faded near the end.

"Save your strength, Valeska," he responded. By pressing his forearm on the bark of a tree he was able to lift himself up, and then positioned his companion on his back. Attempting to alleviate his own fears, he chuckled as he recalled a time where Valeska posed as him when they were children to spare him from punishment. Despite her radical changes, she was still the same at her very core.

"Angry…I was so angry at you when it finally wore off," he admitted. "I thought of giving you a good finger wagging because I thought you were doing it solely for the glory and to prove that you were capable."

The witcheress slightly tilted her head as she grew colder with each passing second. Eskel's voice was amplified once the sound of the rainstorm drowned out. His soothing tone was the only thing that kept her intact with the world of the living.

"You make me so angry that it clouds my thinking. But now I understand why you do things on impulse and…I appreciate that. Valeska, I—" A clash of thunder blocked the last portion of his sentence. Finally, the duo reached a cave. The warm glow emitting from a small fire lit the grotto and offered a bright orange glow.

"So, you were too late," a raspy voice said.

"No," Eskel stated sternly, "but if we wait idly, then me bringing her would be all for naught."

The older man hobbled over to him and inspected the injured woman on his back. Valeska's fingers were interlocked in front of Eskel's neck and it appeared as if she might have lost consciousness only a few moments ago. Mentally noting that the male witcher was correct with his assessment, yet also aware that Eskel was too blind to realize how slim her chances of surviving were.

The next few hours were a blur for the injured witcheress as she teetered on the brink of life and death; she walked a thin tightrope between the realm of the living and the dearly departed. Time spent in the world of the living consisted of her withholding screams of pain as the older male tended to her wound, but failing miserably as a she released a light squeal from the immense pressure, and the land of the dead was a dreadful place. One filled of cloudy skies and constant downpour. Lightning striking at every turn and an endless open plain with decaying flowers painted her possible end. Briefly, she saw glimpses of men and women she never encountered woven in intricate webs of their untimely demise. Valeska could feel herself grow colder the more time she spent in this godforsaken place. Through sheer will and stubbornness, she was transferred to another area where she glided down an empty road. Spotlight shone brightly down on her as she stalked down this dangerous path unable to determine whether this was the right choice. All she saw was a thin scarlet string, which was securely tied around her wrist that led to an unknown destination.

* * *

Waves lapped against the ship as they grew closer to shore. A series of taps on the door revived the slumbering witcheress as she lifted her head off a small vanity table. Fingers briskly ran through silver locks as she pulled it back, revealing slightly pointed ears. The guard, who was playfully seduced and narrowly escaped La Valette Castle, entered. Eyes remained glued to the wooden floors, fearing the woman would once again seduce him once more.

"Commander Roche has informed me that we're almost at Flotsam," he said timidly.

Valeska nodded in response as she took once last glimpse of her slit pupils and piercing golden optics. Tresses once reached the middle of her back in dark waves, yet now they were devoid of all color and skin beyond pale compared to the healthy glow she had as a child. She rose from her seat and approached the exit as the man quickly shuffled away from her. There was a time where fear and sexual advances did not mix, but further precautions deemed it necessary. Past experiences taught her to lure captors into a comforting embrace and eliminate if their intentions were not pure.

"My apologies once again, Donovan," she uttered.

Donovan froze when his eyes finally settled on the woman. Never had he mentioned his name but she still knew it as if she ripped the information from his brain.

"Master Geralt is chatting with the sorceress," he said blandly.

Instead of heading towards the deck she took his hand and eased him into her cabin. Soft lips planted trails of kisses along the nape of his neck as she gripped his hair. She could not help what was in her nature, though primal in its essence she was unable to resist indulging in it. Ultimately, the girl who resided in her nostalgic dreams died quite some time ago.


	3. Coming to a Boil

A magnificent tune eradicated the blanket of silence that encompassed the forest. Soft melody emitted from a wisely crafted flute. Expert fingers blocked openings then hastily shifted to other holes to achieve different pitches. The instrumentalist sat upon a tree trunk with his left eye closed and at an inclined position. His sharp features, crimson headscarf, which covered an unsightly scar on the right side of his visage, and attire was a dead giveaway that this man was the commando of the infamous Scoia'tael, Iorveth. Removing the wind instrument from his lips as he rose to his feet, carefully positioned in the middle of the sturdy trunk. Small group consisting of four people approached the clearing and tilted their heads up at the suspicious man.

Satisfied sigh escaped the witcheress' lips as the corners curved upwards. Utterly aware of the source of the harmonious melody, yet she still marveled over the man's natural talent. The witcheress began, voice but a simple murmur, "All forms of danger reside in these wilds." Golden optics latched on to the Special Forces commander standing at her right. Coquette gave a daring smirk as she returned her attention to the man standing upon the thick trunk.

"Vernon Roche," Iorveth bellowed, "commander of the Blue Stripes, hunter of elves, and murderer of women and children!"

"Iorveth—a regular whore-son," Vernon retorted.

"I've long waited for your arrival. Premeditated ways to lure you into my forest…yet you came on your own volition."

"You aided the man who slew my king!" Vernon responded once more.

"King or beggar—I don't care—one d'hoine less!"

As the two bickered amongst each other Geralt mumbled, "We need him alive."

"Keep him distracted," Triss followed up as she covertly prepped a spell.

The commander of the Blue Stripes then shouted, "Climb down and we'll finish this."

"I will not duel you, Roche, for you lack honor. You're an insect waiting to be crushed underneath the weight of my boot."

"Seems like you spout the same old elven drivel," Geralt interjected.

"…What do you mean witcher?"

"I've witnessed your kind before, proud Aen Seidhe concealing themselves within the stomach of the forests. You mask your helplessness with increasing acts of cruelty."

"I aided the assassination of Roche's king. How could you possible consider that _helpless_? Or, maybe in your eyes you see me as a _terrorist_. No one else will grant us rights. No one else will see our constant struggle…our plight, so we must take our freedom. We _must_ take it for ourselves!"

"Ooh," the witcher began, "but it's truly not about race, is it? You're only here because someone more powerful told you to be. You stand in this specific juncture because someone else is pulling the strings. Before it was Nilfgaard…and now it is someone else. Your clever words will not mask this obvious truth."

"That was in the past, witcher. No one will ever **use** the Scoia'tael again!"

"Are you addressing me, yourself…or the archers hiding in those shrubs?"

That was the signal. An electrical current flowed from the palm of her hand and shot at the elf's feet as he stumbled down the wooden trunk. Several arrows followed suit, coming from multiple angles and threatened to claim the quartet's lives. Without hesitation and quick thinking, Triss muttered a series of incantations and a bright orange barrier formed around them. The arrows dispersed into celestial butterflies.

"Heh, nice," Valeska stated as one of the Scoia'tael charged within the barrier but was quickly disarmed. Long appendage rose as the tip of her boot violently collided into his skull with an unsettling crack as he flipped backwards and out of the orange sphere.

Though Triss was a powerful sorceress, her usage of magic still took a toll on her body. Blood dripped from her nose as she became lightheaded and Geralt caught her from falling.

"We need to get her up...Geralt, draw your sword. I need your help," Valeska ordered calmly.

Vernon Roche slung the woman over his shoulder as they continued to fend off the Scoia'tael.

The sound of swords clanking and bloodcurdling shouts echoed behind the commander of the Blue Stripes and the sorceress who dangled upside down complaining about the hand, which he placed on her rump.

Valeska tumbled closer to Geralt, sweep kicking one of the Scoia'tael members who threatened to back-stab her comrade. She then followed with a swift punt to the man's side as he slid across the ground.

"Seems like you're a little rusty," the witcheress teased as she rose her hand up; an invisible force blasted one of their attackers back. The opposite arm was tugged harshly as she was forced behind her male counterpart, a mixture of orange, yellow, and red engulfed the Scoia'tael members. Vibrant flames leaped and dance across flammable surfaces, melting off flesh.

Physical contact sparked a brief glimpse of something. Clearly, he was no seer capable of having visions...so; it must have been an event that occurred in the past. Inkling in the pit of his stomach hinted that he was missing something extremely important.

The woman's fingers fully extended and touched the spherical barrier, solidifying it. As several Scoia'tael members approached, they were immediately repelled backwards by an unseen force.

_What is this feeling,_ Geralt wondered.

Quartet reached the edges of Flotsam before the Scoia'tael finally retreated once hearing the sound of bells ringing.

"Squirrels!" a man shouted.

"Why the hell are they here?!" a hint of panic resided in a woman's voice.

The remaining Scoia'tael members retreated back to the forest when the quartet reached Flotsam. In the distance a large man, fitting the description of the king slayer stood atop a cliff beside Iorveth.

"Do you know him?"

"Yes, we met once before, but his memory is lost to him."

"...And the woman?"

"The sorceress?" the witcher said quizzically.

"No, though I'm pretty sure she has been traveling with our new _friend,_" he paused. Uncertain of whether the king slayer truly had no clue as to whom or whether he was playing coy.

"Ah..." the king slayer began. "You mean the witcheress. We have met, in fact."

"What do you know about her? Will she throw a wrench in our plans?" Iorveth inquired.

It was difficult to answer. As he watched the quartet usher into town, there was a brief moment when the female witcher peered into the distance and caught glimpse of him. In that moment a ton of baggage on both of their shoulders, and almost as if they were synced felt chills running up and down their spines.

_Things just became a bit more interesting_, was the unvoiced consensus.

**Years Ago**

Sizable hands planted themselves on flawless skin and gradually moved up long toned legs that traveled for miles. Clear beads dripped from the woman's silver strands. She leaned forward, medium hands placed on the sides of the man's visage, making eye contact. There was no doubt in her mind that this man was beyond engrossed by her, as she was to him. She needed to maintain control.

"Letho," she uttered huskily. Every fiber of her being was at war with the spontaneous decision, but she would be completely free. The sorceress wouldn't need her blood anymore. From a single act alone it would lose all forms of purity and her use to the sorceress, who strung her along for so long. Exposed back made contact with the damp ground as the large man hovered over the woman.

_This won't change me_, she thought, attempting to reassure herself. In truth there were doors closing at her back and new ones opening that she was incapable of seeing.


End file.
